


Jaskier in a Ghillie Suit

by poselikeateam



Category: Wiedźmin | The Witcher - All Media Types
Genre: Bisexual Disaster Jaskier | Dandelion, Bisexual Jaskier | Dandelion, Disaster Jaskier | Dandelion, Feral Jaskier | Dandelion, Gen, Geralt says fuck, Geralt z Rivii | Geralt of Rivia Says "Hmm", Geralt z Rivii | Geralt of Rivia is So Done, Mentioned Yennefer z Vengerbergu | Yennefer of Vengerberg, One Night Stands, POV Geralt z Rivii | Geralt of Rivia, Possibly Pre-Slash, Protective Geralt z Rivii | Geralt of Rivia, Ridiculous, Silly, ghillie suit, rated for the swearing
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-05-03
Updated: 2020-05-03
Packaged: 2021-03-01 19:41:21
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,858
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/23992468
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/poselikeateam/pseuds/poselikeateam
Summary: The title is literally what it is. I have no real explanation.
Relationships: Geralt z Rivii | Geralt of Rivia & Jaskier | Dandelion
Comments: 9
Kudos: 70





	Jaskier in a Ghillie Suit

**Author's Note:**

> I was watching the new E-Boys video where WillNE is in a ghillie suit and I'm almost ashamed to say that this was the first thing I thought of. Then I tried going to sleep but all I could fucking think about was Jaskier in a ghillie suit. Special thanks to the Geraskier Discord server, and apologies to my parents for the way I turned out.

Geralt did not trust Jaskier. Oh, sure, they'd been friends for decades, traveled together for most of it. Jaskier patched the wounds he couldn't reach, washed his hair, fussed over him like a mother hen whenever he got the chance. No one could read the Witcher quite like Jaskier could; even Vesemir probably didn't know him as well as Jaskier did. They had been together through thick and thin, and Geralt couldn't think of a person he trusted more in a tough situation. The problem wasn't so much that he couldn't trust what Jaskier would do; no, it was that he couldn't trust a word out of the bard's mouth.

He knew that it shouldn't be a surprise — Jaskier was a bard, and they were prone to embellishments. The thing was, he was probably the only bard in the world who could make anything sound heroic or romantic, could spin a tale into something to suit what he needed, rather than what actually happened. No one could romanticise being covered in Bloedzuiger guts quite like his bard. 

Part of the problem with being someone that could get anyone to listen to you, Geralt privately thought, was probably how unwilling it made you to listen to others. Every time, every blessed time he asked Jaskier to stay behind — for his own safety! — the boy would argue, cajole, whine, and probably about a thousand more words that he would be more suited to coming up with than Geralt was. And when that didn't work? He'd pout. Worse, he'd heave a great sigh, plop himself down wherever they were (be it a rough camp in the forest or a lumpy bed in an inn), and make the biggest deal out of acquiescing. It was as if Geralt wanted to leave him behind as an insult rather than to make sure he didn't fucking die.

And then — then! The fucking bard, over half of the time, would try to follow him anyway. Sometimes he wouldn't even wait, but usually he tried to be sneaky about it. As if Geralt even needed his enhanced Witcher senses to hear the young man tromping through the forest or swamp or what-have-you behind him. He was terrible at sneaking, and maybe that was the most irritating part. Geralt could get used to his orders being ignored (and honestly, he wouldn't admit it, but he had gotten used to it already, decades ago) but the way Jaskier tried to pretend like Geralt wouldn't catch on? The way he seemed to just ignore the fact that Geralt could almost certainly hear and smell him? The way he _never got any fucking better at it_? It was _the worst_. 

So even when Jaskier agreed, told Geralt that fine, yes, he'd stay behind, someone would have to keep Roach safe anyway — Geralt still glared at him, as if he'd ever been able to scare the bard; still growled out a "stay put", because Jaskier's acquiescence meant as much as a drunk alderman's promise of gold; still made sure to _very obviously_ look behind him no less than ten times as he left the bard—

and was still followed afterwards, more often than not. 

So, yes, it was frustrating, and sometimes he even considered telling the impudent little shit _why_ he needed to stay the fuck put — this creature is very fast, these will be close quarters, it has mind control powers, you smell delicious — but he always refrained anyway. He was not a man of many words, never had been, and he didn't want to waste them if he wasn't sure that Jaskier would finally fucking listen to him if he did. 

The reason that he even paid it any mind this time, when he _should_ be focusing on the monster he's supposed to be tracking, is that Jaskier was _far_ too easy for comfort.

And, okay, no — not in the way that he's _usually_ easy. It's actually a blessing when he falls into bed with some townsperson or another while Geralt's off _doing his fucking job_ , because then he _knows_ that Jaskier won't follow, that he can focus entirely on what he's doing instead of always keeping a part of himself alert for the idiot tromping along behind him, "all stealthy-like". 

No, instead of falling into some married woman's bed, or shacking up with a stable boy, or deflowering the maiden daughter of the town mayor, or any of the other excessively irritating sexcapades he's burdened Geralt with over the years (because even when he's being _easy_ the bard's biggest talent is probably how fucking _difficult_ he can be), he'd just... agreed. To stay behind. No theatrics, no terrible attempts at convincing Geralt that it is absolutely necessary for him to come along, not even a pout. When told to stay put, Jaskier hadn't even looked up from his fucking lute. 

"Yes, yes, Geralt," he'd said absentmindedly as he twisted the tuning keys and plucked his strings, "bard stays, Witcher goes, Witcher comes back injured and pretends he doesn't need help from bard. Now, I've a composition I'm itching to finish, so if you could?" and Geralt hadn't really known what to do with that, honestly, so with a "Hmm," he stalked off into the field to search out his prey, and hoped against hope that that would be the end of that.

It wasn't. 

Of course it wasn't. Geralt had never considered himself a particularly lucky man, and this would have been the luckiest break of his life (and no, Jaskier's dramatics were _not_ rubbing off on him, and the smugly amused little Yennefer voice in his head could fuck off entirely). About ten minutes into his search (a new record, probably), he heard a shuffle behind him, and whipped around, sword drawn in an instant. 

Nothing was there.

Okay. He stopped, took a better look at his surroundings. There was the field, the tall grass swaying in the light breeze, the wildflowers reaching towards the sun, the giant pile of moss—

What the fuck.

Okay. Obviously, there were no moss monsters, and that included monsters that looked like moss, turned into moss, or controlled moss. Besides, he was looking for a noonwraith, so if anything, the moss would be _on fire_. Still, he was sure that it hadn't been there before, and it definitely did not belong in this meadow. A swamp, maybe, or a little moss on a rock, sure, but an enormous, vaguely human-shaped pile of—

It sneezed.

The moss sneezed. Okay. Geralt took a subtle breath through his nose, scenting the sneezing moss, and... of course. 

"Jaskier."

Silence.

"Jaskier."

No answer.

"For fuck's sake, Jaskier, I know that's you."

Finally, the moss spoke. "No, no 'Jaskier' here, my good man! Just moss! Magic moss! Walking moss! Talking moss!"

"Right." The Witcher's tone was deliberately as dry and skeptical as he could make it (and he did have a long time to perfect that tone, especially after Jaskier came into his life). 

"You wound me, sir!" said the moss, bringing a hand-shaped appendage to where its heart would be if it were a bard (it was). "I was brought to life by Elder Magics. Very important business. And speaking of, you look terribly busy, so I shan't keep you any longer." 

It was clearly a dismissal from the self-proclaimed Magical Moss Man, and honestly, Geralt was hoping that this would be the end of it. If he was lucky, Jaskier would know that he was caught, trudge back to their camp, take off that ridiculous suit, and wait for Geralt to return. 

Geralt was never a lucky man.

As he continued on, the moss followed. Every time he turned, it stilled. He was getting fucking tired of this. 

"Jaskier."

"No Jaskier, just moss!"

Geralt pinched the bridge of his nose between his thumb and forefinger, taking as deep of a breath as he possibly could in an effort to fight the irritation-induced headache building in his skull. It did not work.

"Stop following me."

The moss scoffed. "Why on the Continent would I be following you? I am magical, talking _moss_. I have more important things to do. They just _happen_ to be in the same direction you are headed."

"Hmm." Geralt turned, and promptly began stalking the other way, toward the moss. "I'm headed this way, then. Enjoy your... moss."

Predictably, the moss followed.

"My mistake, it is so easy to get lost when one has no eyes," the moss rambled, much like a certain bard (who was, Geralt could not over-stress, _under the fucking moss_ ). "I'm actually headed this way! Moss business can be so finicky."

It was around this point that Geralt, by his first stroke of luck so far, saw a stick. One of the villagers must have used it as a walking stick before being run off or otherwise disposed of by the noonwraith. An idea formed almost immediately and Geralt, not one to waste an opportunity, bent over, picked up the stick, and started to walk towards the moss with it. 

"Oh drat, I was actually going _this_ way," the moss said as it made to follow him. However, instead of stalking past it again, Geralt pointed the stick outward, and gave it a good, strong poke.

"Ow! Hey!"

He poked it again.

"Please do not poke the magic moss!" it groused, voice pitching upward as it was poked again. "Geralt!"

"I never told you my name," he said, something close to an amused smirk on his lips. (He hoped Jaskier couldn't see it through the moss, because on Geralt, it was as good as an enormous, shit-eating grin.) He poked it again.

"Magic moss doesn't need introductions!" it snapped. "Oh, I'm _so_ glad you're enjoying yourself at my expense— hey!" 

If he were honest with himself (he wasn't sure he wanted to be), Geralt could have done this for _hours_. Unfortunately, he heard a screech behind him, and knew that his fun would be cut short. 

In one fluid motion, he dropped the stick, drew his sword, and spun to face the noonwraith, just barely catching the sight of the bard behind him dropping to the ground, looking more like an actual patch of moss than he had this entire time.

The fight was short. Usually, when Jaskier was there, he caused no shortage of problems. The monsters would take notice of him and use him as either an easy target or a distraction, or Geralt would have to worry about accidentally clipping him with his sword. However, it was almost alarmingly easy to charge the noonwraith and keep her away from the moss-covered bard; it was almost as if she didn't realise that he wasn't actually made of fucking moss.

When the fight ended, Geralt walked over to the moss-bard and hauled him up by the arm. 

"Let's get back to the alderman," he said. 

Jaskier took off the mask of his moss-suit, grinning. Geralt did not like that look. That look spelled trouble for him.

"Looks like the suit worked!" he crowed. Geralt knew then that this was definitely not going to be a one-time thing.


End file.
